


Wars for the broken

by Yuliares



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Extended last scene, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, Paris (City), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25680502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuliares/pseuds/Yuliares
Summary: Five years into his exile, Booker is joined by a companion he never expected to meet. Together, they try to work on healing.Sometimes they go down to the sewers just so she can scream and scream. “I like to hear it echo,” she explains. “Underwater, you can’t hear anything. Here, at least I can be heard.”“I don’t feel like a warrior anymore,” she tells him, throwing bread crumbs at pigeons. “I feel broken.”“You’re still a warrior,” he says roughly. “This is still fighting.”
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Quynh | Noriko
Comments: 40
Kudos: 382





	Wars for the broken

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reimaginging of the last scene of the movie, starting with Booker dropping his bottle of alcohol and replacing "6 Months Later" with "5 Years Later".

_ Epilogue: 5 Years Later _

The liver, Booker thinks resentfully, is an amazing organ. It’s frankly surprising how few times he’s managed to tip himself over the edge into full-on failure, but the night is still young - he’s already got a good buzz going, enough that his feet turn sideways and he trips, smashing his knee and the half-drunk bottle into glitter shards against the hard ground.

“Fuck,” he grunts, leaving the glass, and fumbling open the door of his flat.

There’s a woman in his flat, a mug from his kitchen in her hand, leaning up against the wall. He’s seen her face in nightmares.

“You must be Booker,” she says, and takes a drink.

He staggers, sits down in the chair closest to the door. For the first time in the last six months, he wishes he weren’t drunk. Or… or maybe it’s better this way. “Shit. You’re Quynh.”

She nods.

He can’t stop staring at her. Her pale wrists, peeking out of the soft sleeves of a bathrobe. Her eyes watching him. “We dreamed-” he says. Stops. “You finally got free.”

She shrugs. “The lock broke. Five years ago, I think. My body washed up on an island shore - died a few times - got picked up by a shipping vessel and handed off to social services. Decided I was a victim of human trafficking, on a ship that sank. PTSD. A castaway who nearly drowned.”

She tilts her head at him. “I was so angry. And weak, but I did hurt them. They strapped me down, which just made me lash out even harder. Eventually, they switched to drugs. But they… they still tried to help me. Did help me. I was drugged semi-conciousness for almost an entire year before it was safe, and another year of heavy drugs after that.”

Booker runs a hand down his face, the rough scrape of stubble against his fingers. “My god.”

“They taught me to read, and write. Lots of therapy. Lots of pills. They stop the dreams, mostly. Drowning is all I dream about.” She looks at him. “Or it was, until I started dreaming about you.”

“... because you’d never met me,” he says, after thinking a moment. “And I’m alone.”

He doesn't want her to ask, but the question is inevitable.

“Why are you alone, Booker?”

He looks down at the ground, bowing his head. “I'm in exile. One hundred years.” He turns his face away, stares at the wall. “I led us into an ambush, on purpose. To a company that wanted to research us, make drugs. Help people.”

He shrugs. “Stupid idea.”

“Why did you do it?” she asks, voice soft.

“Thought they could figure out how to kill us.” He picks at the armrest of his chair, the threads faded and fraying. “I’m the oldest anyone’s been turned. I had a wife, four kids. I tried to stay. This has always been a curse, right from the start. And Andy - Andromache - has wanted to die for a long time. And I was afraid… of what happened to you.” He sighs, laughs once, sighs again. “Only that’s exactly what I signed us up for - an eternity of being trapped, and tortured. I was desperate, and tried to drag them down with me.”

“How many?”

“Four others. Three, at the time.”

Her eyebrows lift. “A new one!”

“Yeah. First one in two hundred years.”

They lapse into silence.

“Quynh,” he says. “You should go to see Andromache. She searched for you for a very long time. She’s torn up with guilt.”

Her lips thin, and her fingers around the mug tighten until her knuckles are white. “Guilt, because she knew what I was suffering, and still she gave up. I don’t think I can forgive that.”

Booker holds up his hands. “It’s up to you. I respect that. But you should know - you won’t have forever. She and I have already said our goodbyes.”

“You mean-”

“She’s mortal now. Like Lykon, she’s stopped healing.” He laughs a little. “Wonder if this means she’ll start aging. Not that I think she’ll live long enough to find out.”

“After so long…” Quynh moves from the wall, sits down heavily across from him, the couch groaning. “Why now? ...why couldn’t it have been me, years ago?”

He shrugs, freezes with a wince as his stomach turns, shakes his head. “World ain’t fair. We just know it more’n most.”

“Yes,” she says softly. Her pale fingers tap the side of the mug. “I... still cannot. But I also cannot be alone.” She sits back on the couch. “You are alone as well. We should be alone, together.”

“It doesn’t have to be me,” he says, because he’s trying to do the right thing, this time. “After what I’ve done...”

She frowns at him. “That’s not an answer.”

For a moment Booker thinks,  _ Maybe this is my penance,  _ but shakes it away just as quickly. Quynh’s suffering has nothing to do with him.

“Yeah,” he breathes, voice cracking. His eyes are stinging. “This is probably cheating on my punishment, but yeah. For as long as you want, let’s be alone. Together.”

“A lot has changed in the world,” she says. “I want to understand it.”

“I will teach you,” he promises, voice hoarse.

There are new rules. No alcohol, because it interferes with her medication. They keep lights on, at all times, because she’s spent enough time in the dark. They buy dry shampoo, and a smartphone, with the camera taped over. He takes her to all the touristy spots - museums and landmarks, and they talk about traffic lights and nutella crepes and history and the greatest inventions of the last three hundred years.

The first time she tries bouillabaisse, she vomits it up immediately, and he steadies her shoulders as they rush out of the restaurant. “Salty,” she chokes, crying angrily.

“Breathe in with me,” he says, “One. Two. Three-”

He’s so used to being the pessimist. It’s hard, trying to be something else. He doesn’t always succeed.

Sometimes, when things are really bad, they go into the sewers and fight with just their fists, clawing and stabbing at each other, the snap of bones echoing hollowly in the long corridors. It smells like urine. She snaps his neck and holds his hand, waiting for his vertebrae to reconnect.

Sometimes they go down to the sewers just so she can scream and scream. “I like to hear it echo,” she explains. “Underwater, you can’t hear anything. Here, at least I can be heard.”

They go for long walks throughout the city.

“I don’t feel like a warrior anymore,” she tells him, throwing bread crumbs at pigeons. “I feel broken.”

“You’re still a warrior,” he says roughly. “This is still fighting.”

They sleep in the same bed, facing each other, holding hands. 

Tonight, they have the window open, and the summer air is hot and humid. The light is dimmed, but still on, and there are fairy lights hung on all the walls like stars. Neither is finding sleep easily.

“Tell me about the new one,” Quynh whispers. Her dark hair spills across the white pillow.

“Nile,” he says. “Bright young thing. Marine, American. Beautiful, dark skin like Lykon had, or so I'm told. Kind of hate her,” he adds, though he grins about it. “But I think Andy likes her. Reminds her of how she used to be - full of hope, eager to change the world, not yet worn down by all the years.”

They both sigh.

“The man who tracked us down,” Booker says slowly. “He had this chart - all the things we’d done in the last hundred years. Helped people. Saved people who went on to do good things, and save more lives. Like an… echo effect. Ripples or some shit. I couldn’t see it, on my own, but… we do make a difference.” He squeezes Quynh’s hand. “Our suffering does matter.”

“I’ll make that judgement for myself,” she murmurs, but her fingers squeeze his back.

They lay in the semi-darkness, listening to the sounds of the city around them.

“I want to believe,” she whispers.

“Me too,” he says, and when he closes his eyes, he focuses on the feeling of their hands together, warm skin that trembles and twitches, and prays that it’s true.


End file.
